


Due North

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Humor, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Roleplay, Romance, Sex, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"If anyone gets to punish anyone in this scenario, it's him. Her. He gets to punish her, because this is one-hundred percent her fault. For running away to Canada for, like, a week on some feeble professional conference excuse." Set any time in S6, but this has nothing to do with anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue—Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's this picture of NF when he was on Nick Kroll's show. Add into the mix a friend who is HELL BENT ON RUINING MY LIFE IN ALL POSSIBLE WAYS.
> 
> This is just two chapters, or perhaps two with a brief epilogue. The rest is written and just needs editing and decision making about how to post it.
> 
>  

She can stop looking at him like that any time now. Like she's going to absolutely dismantle him, bit by sensitive bit,the first chance she gets. Like she's got nothing but options, but she just can't decide on the right punishment.

She probably can't. She's pretty creative in the punishment department. Dangerously, exquisitely creative, and this is so not the time or the place for thinking like that.

Because these pants are surprisingly tight. Everywhere except in the weird jodhpur area, and the long red coat only goes so far. And if anyone does ask him to stand up—if anyone decides that maybe they should get his version of events, rather than taking the word of some slightly hysterical stranger who completely misinterpreted the situation—the long red coat is not exactly going to divert attention from . . . certain downstream effects of spending any more time thinking about Beckett and punishment.

And, anyway, if anyone gets to punish anyone in this scenario, it's him. Her. He gets to punish her, because this is one-hundred percent her fault. For running away to Canada for, like, a week on some feeble professional conference excuse. Totally her fault. So she can pack away that particular look right the hell now.

Not that reversing the polarity on punishment exactly helps with his . . . emergent problem. He's no slouch in the creative punishment department either, and the cross-strap on this thing is sturdy for a costume.

Of course, it's a top of the line costume. Well made, and the attention to detail is impressive. From the high, polished boots down to the buttons and holster and belt. And, of course, the pouch for the cuffs. But he's definitely not thinking about that. Those. Her and that and those, because, hello, very tight pants and attention-drawing red coat, and they're already in trouble. He is not thinking about the satisfying snap and hiss of handcuffs. The way she's defiant and furious and lit up with it the second they click home around her wrists. He's not thinking about that.

Well, he is. Handcuffs—not the fun kind—are on his mind. Because apparently, surprising one's fiancée is a crime in Canada. Or impersonating a mountie. Whatever. It's enough to get you hauled down to hotel security HQ, and that's just sad. It's a sad, polite little place where they apologize for handcuffs and the march of shame with tea and passive–aggressive frowns and disapproval. And lots of stacks of overflow banquet chairs with really appalling mauve upholstery. It's unfortunate in any number of ways because the surprise is ruined.

And anyway, he wasn't impersonating. It's not like he was wandering from conference room to conference room in the outfit, collecting the deepest secrets of international policing to sell on the black market. He's here for her and only for her. And yes, she didn't know he was here at all until she got the call.

He wishes she still didn't know. He wishes he could have gotten out of this, surprise and a kinder, gentler Beckett intact, but this hotel security guy is compensating. He's got a complex about a building full of real cops or something. Between him and the guest who called in the first place, it had gotten to a point where things were about to escalate and he absolutely had to drop her name.

But he wasn't impersonating anything. Not for anyone but her. He's just never been one to skimp when it comes to costumes. And for this? Authenticity is crucial. He's convinced of that. He's convinced of a lot of things.

He knows this is a thingwith her. A fantasy that makes her breath hitch, starting somewhere low in her belly and going all the way up. It makes her cheeks flush with this dirty innocence that he just has to know more about. He has to have the story, and there is one. He knows that, too, as surely as he knows it's not one she'll readily confess.

That's ok. Those are the best stories. The ones he has to work for. It's an art with her. Still. Even though she's the furthest thing from shy about what she wants. Now. More. Like that. Don't stop. God, Castle . . . She's blessedly vocal. Open and enthusiastic, and there's not a single thing between them that doesn't live up to four years of build.

But this part is still an art. He's the story teller. She's adamant about that. Strangely everything-in-its-place until he coaxes. Until he has her where he wants her. Where she wants him to have her. Either or both. Both is good. Both is fucking mind blowing.

It's an art. Knowing when to chase and when to keep quiet. Waiting for just the right kind of dark and the clock to tick over to the minute she'll pour her all her shy secrets in his ear. Because that's it sometimes. Sometimes it's patience and warmth and the kind of openness that doesn't come easy to her.

And sometimes it's not that at all. Sometimes it's him watching. Pushing and pushing, then easing back. Letting her fall a little and catching her. Reading her body and looking for the signs. The flare of her nostrils and heat sweeping upward. Licking her collar bones and tracing a path between her breasts.

It's that kind of story. The kind that has him waiting for the glance over her bare shoulder. The challenge that says Make me. Make me tell. And he does. He looms above her. Makes his size an issue and drags her arms high overhead. He uses teeth and nails and the voice that twists low inside her and they both come away with the good kind of scars, but she tells.

That's the kind of story this. He knows. It's why he followed. It's why he's keeping quiet right now. Letting her handle things, even though it's ridiculous. He locked himself out of the room and he wasn't impersonating anyone. She was later than she should have been, and he was getting ice and the housekeeping cart with the master key was right there and, really . . .

His mouth opens. He's dying to explain. To tell his side, but she gives him a look and he realizes she has it handled. That she's found just the way to handle the security guy and he should keep his mouth shut.

He can do that. He can bide his time.


	2. Wish Fulfillment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Her eyes dart around the room, apparently unchanged since she left it. She's a little thrown by it. A little intrigued. It's not the champagne-and-roses surprise she was expecting, and the color is rising in her cheeks now. She tries to cover."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more NSFW. Also long for PWP. I edited as best I could.

* * *

She's silent on the elevator ride up. He is, too. He has the hat tucked under one arm and keeps his eyes on the light gliding from floor to floor. It annoys her. Unnerves her, really. She'd expected stammering apologies. Promises that he'd make it up to her. She thought she know how this would go.

She has no idea.

She's the one who breaks first. Right at the door to the room. _Her_ room, and he knows she's dying to know how he got a key in the first place. She won't ask, but she breaks anyway. She shoulders it open and pauses. She looks back over her shoulder like she might not let him in. Like she wants him to sweat.

"It's only for dress." She looks him up and down. "The red."

"Is that really how you want to play this, Miss?"

He has her by the elbow. They're through the door and he's flipped the security bar before she has time to pick her jaw up off the floor.

He turns to her. Crowds her down the short hallway into the room. It's none too big, dominated by the bed with most of the remaining floor space eaten up by a spindle-legged writing desk. There's really nowhere to go. That makes her nervous, too, though it suits him exactly.

Her eyes dart around the room, apparently unchanged since she left it. She's a little thrown by it. A little intrigued. It's not the champagne-and-roses surprise she was expecting, and the color is rising in her cheeks now. She tries to cover.

 _"Miss?"_ She raises an eyebrow. Straightens her spine and rolls her shoulders back.

He holds for a beat. For two. He looks her up and down until he sees it. The barest flicker of uncertainty. The first hint that she knows—really _knows—_ this won't go her way. That nothing will play out as she expects.

He reaches past her to set the hat on the desk. She watches. She doesn't want to, but her eyes follow its path and there's a trace of regret. More than a trace, and it almost breaks him. He almost grins. She likes the costume. She _really_ likes the costume, but they have the whole night at least. There's time enough for all kinds of games.

"New Jersey license?" He gives her another once over. "I don't think so." He shakes his head. "I assume the name isn't yours either."

Her eyes widen. Her pupils dilate. She's caught. It's not much more than a hunch and the attention to detail he can't really help, but he has her. The broad strokes of it, anyway, and the air crackles between them now.

"How old _are_ you, Miss . . .?"

He lets the question mark linger. He takes another step toward her. Backs her right into the wall. Her fingers curl around the corner. Around the molding of the bathroom door. She's holding back. Still pissed and not willing to let him win without a fight at the best of times.

But he can give her a fight. He's more than willing.

"Not twenty-four." He reaches for her. She ducks away, expecting him to go for her elbow again. Her wrist or some other place within the bounds of propriety. Something that fits the bill, but he slides his palm down her side. Over the curve of her hip. He lets his gaze follow, a slow drag up and down. "That's what it says. Your fake ID. Ambitious."

She doesn't answer. Her jaw twitches. She's struggling to stay still. She's losing. He splays his fingers out and up. He rests his thumb lightly against her lowest rib. He presses against the rise and fall as her breath comes faster. She's losing. They both know that.

"Not twenty-four," he says again.

His free hand snakes out, too fast for her to react when she's already coming undone. He has her by the wrist this time. She tries to twist away. Instinct and outrage, but he has the advantage in the small space. He steps back, pulling her toward his body in one motion and spinning her to face the wall in the next.

"I don't want to have to cuff you, Miss . . ."

She laughs at that. Something strangled and low that stretches out until she hears the snap of metal and the creak of leather. Something that dies entirely when she feels cool silver circling her skin and the tug of his finger at the short length of chain between the bracelets.

". . . but I will." He dips his mouth to her ear. There's heat rising from her skin. "How old are you?"

"Seven . . . seventeen." The word snags on something. A wanting sound caught in her throat. One eye cracks open, burning brown and gold. Desire with a hint of mischief mixed in. A hint of defiance. "ID only made me twenty-three."

He jerks at the cuffs again. Turns her to face him and her eyes are open wide now. He crowds her body back toward the wall, hands curled around her hips. "But seventeen makes you a runaway."

She swallows hard. Her chin twitches. She nods, though. "Something like that."

It's a lie or the next thing to it. "I can't help you if you won't cooperate, Miss . . ."

"Black," she says and that's true enough. A little further along the breadcrumb trail before she stands up to him again. "Can you even question me?" She takes in the uniform. Up and down and up again. Worse for her than for him, though. Her breath hitches. "Me being seventeen and all."

She's trying to recover. Trying too hard, and that's her in the here and now. She's trying to get at him. Not at all pleased that he's gotten this far and sure that he hasn't really thought this through. She should know better.

"I've advised you of your rights." He steps to the side. He's behind her before she can react, and the cuffs make her awkward. "Given you every opportunity to speak with counsel. Offered to call your parents . . ." He lets that linger, too. He steps her toward the bed. He turns, quick enough that she's unbalanced. She sits on the edge of the bed with a hard bounce. "But you declined, didn't you?"

She's silent. Biting the inside of her lip and trying to get control of her breath, but he presses. He doesn't give her a minute. "What am I supposed to do with that, Miss Black?"

"I . . ." Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. Nerves and want, both. She looks up at him through her lashes and he sees the Kate that was. The Kate whose story they're telling together. Young and awkward and trying too hard to be grown up. To be in control. "I bet you . . . have some ideas."

He sighs like he's disappointed. He drops to the bed beside her and fishes out the key to the cuffs. A key. No release button. She registers that they're the real thing. He feels the pulse pound in her wrist as he unlocks one bracelet and eases her arms in front of her.

She rolls her shoulders, a little for comfort, a little for effect and she's killing him with this rendition of herself. This blend of her now and then. He holds on to the open circle, leaving her with one hand free for the moment. He leans back from her a little.

"I think you're in enough trouble without making more for yourself, Miss." His tone is level. Polite and reasonable. It gets under her skin instantly, just like he knew it would.

"Trouble?" She lunges for him. She swings one thigh around his hip and scrambles into his lap. Her hands dart here and there, tugging at buckles and gliding over rough serge and polished leather. She's all teeth and ferocious energy and the uniform is _really_ doing it for her. He closes his eyes and concentrates on his breath. On the tipping point. If he wanted the story one whit less, he'd let things play out exactly like this.

But he wants the story. His eyes flick open. Her gaze catches his. Just a fraction of a second, but enough.

_Make me. Make me tell._

She struggles up on to her knees. She raises her hands high overhead. He takes the cue and skims her shirt up and off her free arm. She smirks like she has him. Tugs at the cuff still circling her wrist and the chain makes music. She thinks she has him. He lets her think it long enough for her shirt sleeves to clear the cuffs and drift to the floor behind. Long enough for her to flip open the front clasp of her bra and shrug out of the straps.

Just long enough to let her guard down before he turns the tables. Before his hands close around her hips and he has her on her back, urging her up toward the head of the bed. Not taking no for an answer.

He grabs for the silver dangling from her wrist. Her eyes flick to the headboard. A solid piece of padded fabric. No posts. The corner of her mouth twitches up. He lets her have it. The _gotcha_ moment before he slams her wrist above her head. He tugs the heavy bedspread down and sweeps the pillows aside.

She jerks hard at her wrist. Instinctive. But he's already snapped the free bracelet to a D-ring fastened to a wide strap buckled all the way around the mattress.

"The _fuck,_ Castle? _"_ She's sputtering. Completely caught out and _furious._

He catches her other wrist before she's had time to regroup. He clears the linens and pillows there, too. There's another set of cuffs waiting. Another set closing with a satisfying _snick_ that has her shoulders rolling up from the bed and her eyes flying wide open.

"Constable," he says gruffly. "And I don't appreciate the foul language, Miss."

He sinks back to one thigh, looming over her. Considering.

She's spitting mad. Her jaw works and her eyes flash. She's tugging at the cuffs and twisting her hips. But there's a shiver coasting over her skin, too. Anticipation that makes her breath ragged.

She's gorgeous like this. Pale skin with pink blooming here and there. The dark peaks of her breasts straining up and the jut of her hip bones just above the fabric of her pants. She's fucking glorious with her arms flung wide and her hair tumbling over the pillows. Helpless and defiant.

"What brought you to Canada, Miss, Black?"

He tugs at the buckle over his hip—the one she left half undone, even though she makes a sound of protest now. He works at the strap running diagonally next, sliding it from under the epaulet with a swift motion that snaps the leather and has her hips rising from the bed without her say so. He folds the length in two. A loop with the ends spilling over his palm. He pulls it taut. Another sharp crack. A suggestion that has her lips parting in a not-quite silent moan.

"I asked you a question." He sets the two belts aside and slips open the button at his throat. She's silent. Fixated on the swift motion of his fingers as he works his way lower. "Miss Black?"

The sharp note of command brings her eyes back to meet his as he shrugs out of the coat. They're unfocused, though, shifting rapidly from his face to his bare arms to the braces holding up the pants. The very _tight_ pants that are definitely hiding nothing now and _that_ curls up the corners of her mouth. Satisfaction that she's not the only one coming undone.

And he can't have that.

He drops on to his palms. One on either side of her shoulders. She makes a soft sound of surprise as he lands. Another, louder this time, as the fabric of his undershirt roughs against her skin.

"What." His mouth lands below her ear. His teeth mark her. "Brought you." He glides down her body. He sucks hard at the hollow of her throat. Another mark. "To Canada?"

"A guy," she gasps. She presses up her body upward. Closer to to his mouth. "A man."

He brushes a kiss beneath her chin. Something gentle that frustrates her. It's not the kind of reward she was looking for.

She arches her spine, insisting, but he pulls back entirely. He rolls on to one elbow. Flattens his palm over her abdomen. She shoots him a look, half desperate, half pissed off, but she stills. He nods, pleased. A _good girl_ gesture she hates a little and loves a lot when it's this kind of story.

He lets his hand travel up. His fingers feather over her nipples, but it's just a stop along the way. His thumb brushes over her lips and his fingertips coax her eyelids closed. He lowers his mouth to her breast, hovering. Waiting to see if she'll play along. If she'll stay still.

She will. She does. He closes his lips over the tight peak as it strains up toward him. He runs his tongue in a leisurely circle, around and around. He sucks and teases until she gives in. Until her own lips part and she lets loose the moan she's been holding tight between her teeth.

"Older than you." He kisses along the inside of one breast. Lets his hand play lightly over the other before he fills the palm of his hand with it. Before he squeezes hard. Pinches at it and lets her body tell him how much is just the other side of enough. "Quite a bit older."

"Yes." She pants. Her eyes are squeezed shut and she's worrying the corner of her lip with her teeth. "Older."

He lowers his mouth over her other breast. Lifts his hand to play over the wet surface he's just abandoned. A harder pinch there and teeth at the other. She cries out, even as her hips buck closer to him. "You like older men, Miss Black?"

Her eyes flick open at that. She can't resist. "Some."

She can't resist, so he makes her pay. He pushes up from the bed. His hands and mouth abandon her skin long enough to pull something outraged from her. Some cross between _Constable_ and his name, both mangled by fury.

He moves quickly down the bed, shoving one hand beneath her hips, tearing at the button of her dress pants with the other. His fingers hook over the waistband and drag them none-too-gently down her legs. Her heels dangle from her toes until he yanks the whole lot down at once, panties and all.

"Some?" He plants one hand at the inside of her knee. He leans in, trailing kisses in a low string from hip to hip. "Him? Did you want him? Did you want him to want you?"

"Yes." She draws her heel up to the bed. Her eyes drop closed again and she settles in to the stretch at her shoulders. Her knee bends. Falls open under the slightest pressure of his palm. "I wanted . . . _wanted . . ._ _"_

"This?" His fingers travel swiftly up the inside of her thigh. He circles her clit once. He dips a finger inside, then another. He angles his wrist to press his whole hand tight against her. She's flooding his palm already. "Is this what you wanted?"

" _God._ " Her low back curls off the bed. She thrashes against the weight of his shoulder, the muscles of her abdomen fluttering as he nips and sucks at the skin there. "Yes. More. Want more."

He obliges momentarily. He sweeps his thumb out to press hard against her clit. A lingering touch that skips away and leaves her stranded on the edge.

"More." He eases his fingers out of her. Dips his head and lets his tongue slick just once over her before he's scaling her body. Touching his fingers to her lips and sharing the taste in a kiss. "Maybe later."

He swallows her protest. A hard sweep of his tongue over hers and a firm hand at her shoulder. The press of his chest against hers.

"You didn't get what you wanted, did you?" He slides his hand to her jaw. He jerks her chin up, waiting for her eyes to open. Waiting for her to face him. "Not from him. He left you. Where?"

She swallows. He presses his fingers over the rise and fall of it. Soothing, but demanding, too. Taking in the details. Waiting patiently for her to give.

"Hotel," she says quietly.

Fear creeps in now. Unpleasant memory. He kisses her. Draws out the sting of it. "Bad?"

"Bad." She nods. A crooked smile to show she's ok, really. "But then . . ." She arches her body against his. She hooks her ankle around his calf and draws her foot up slick leather of his boot to the yellow strapping that runs the length of his leg.

"Then." He pulls his knee up, planting his thigh higher between hers. "A knock at the door?"

She nods again. Sinks her body against him. He lets her for now. Braces himself to one side and just enjoys the roll of her hips. The way desire floods through her. The way she's utterly open with it. Shameless.

"A knock at the door." Her head falls back. She arches her throat up towards his mouth and he feels the words vibrating there.

"And do you know why the police would be interested in you, Miss Black?" He twists. Lets the weight of his upper body settle on to one elbow and snugs his thigh more firmly against her. "Do you have any idea why we're here?"

She shakes her head. Her eyes are wide. She's speechless. Back in the moment. She's afraid, but that comes second. She's exhilarated. A bad girl getting off on this. On all the trouble she's in.

He wants her. Suddenly. _Badly._

"Did he cuff you?" He drags a rough hand up body. Along her ribs and the length of her arm to the outpost of one wrist, high above her head. He closes his fingers around it. Heat and metal and resistance.

"No." That's all her. _His_ Kate, still furious about it after all this time. "Disappointing." She grins on that, though. She catches his mouth in a rough kiss.

"Disappointing. I'll bet," he murmurs back. "Was he very proper?"

He works one hand between their bodies, fumbling at the fly of his pants a little more than strictly necessary. She's wild with it. The incidental contact. Pressure and retreat.

"Proper." She chokes out. "Polite. Incredibly fucking polite."

"It's not what you wanted." He frees himself, finally. Clumsily, and that's not entirely deliberate. He's as caught up as she is, and the soaking wet heat of her drenching the head of his cock very nearly undoes him right then and there. "It's not what you wanted at all."

He reaches up to claw the braces from his shoulders.

"Leave . . . don't . . ." Her voice is raw. His hips jerk toward her, well beyond his control at this point. Her eyes roll back in her head at the contact. Too little and too much with the fabric dragging at the inside of her thighs. "Like this. Just like this."

He slams into her, helpless to do anything else. Her body clamps hard around him. There's a filthy sounding grunt from one of them. Both of them, probably. He drags himself back out with effort that might kill him. She's so fucking _tight_ already.

"Like this?" He focuses on the words. On the feel of them in his mouth and the taste of sweat beading on her breast when his tongue flicks out. He pushes back in, slow this time. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Nooooo." It's anguished. Her thighs flex. She pushes against him, but he's letting himself press her down into the mattress. He's using his weight and some miraculous reserve of patience to hold back. To make her beg. "Hard. Please. _Hard."_

It doesn't break him right away. Somehow it doesn't. He drags in and out. He has the will to tease her a little while, but the litany turns filthy somewhere along the way. Her hands open and close, both twisting to pull hard at the short length of chain at the cuffs and he's out of his mind when her teeth sink into his shoulder. He hooks an elbow under one thigh and drives into her again and again. A short, hard grind until both their bodies snap tight and neither one of them can movie.

His eyes squeeze shut and the world is shards of black and amber as he gasps for breath against her chest.

She's sort of . . . gone when he can breathe again. Her mouth is slack and her hips are still rolling up into his. Short, fluttering movements around him, but it's detached. Like there's nothing here but her body and all it wants from him.

"Kate." He lets his breath tickle her ear. He makes his hands heavy on her skin and calls her back. "You with me?"

"With you . . " She says it on a sharp breath. It startles her. The sound of her own voice. Her lips draw up in a wide grin. Sleepy. Lazy. Spent. "With you."

"Hey." He kisses her. Presses his own grin to hers. "Good. Missed you."

"Already?" She rolls her shoulders. He draws back, remembering. Reaching for the bedside table. For the key he'd tossed there. She shakes her head, though. Stretches and teases him with the arc of her ribs pressing into his palm.

"Already."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There's a short epilogue I'll post after looking over it a bit. Thanks for reading.


	3. Epilogue—Once Upon a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She rolls her eyes. Tips her head back. It's not just for him. The impatience. The disbelief. It's for her, too. For youth and stupidity. He wishes, not for the first time, that she weren't so hard on herself. All her selves."

* * *

They're at right angles to each other on the bed. He can't remember how they wound up like this, him sprawled width-wise at the bottom with his feet dangling and her stretched out along one edge.

"I'm starving." She tickles the outside of his thigh with her toes. She holds her arms high above the bed and circles her wrists. She's long and languid and catlike and if he had any energy at all, he'd definitely be taking advantage of that. "Aren't you starving?"

"Starving," he agrees. "Unsurprisingly."

" _Un_ surprisingly." She drums on his calf with her feet and he wonders how she can move _at all_.

"I'm not sure room service is an option." He cracks an eye open, cowering a little as he peers up at her. She hasn't forgotten his earlier adventures. There'll be hell to pay for that at some point. He grins up at the ceiling. She sees it. She knows _exactly_ what he's thinking, but hell isn't knocking just yet.

"Only one way to find out." She pushes herself up on an elbow and leans away from him.

She turns back, far more quickly than she should be capable of right now, and tosses the phone's handset at him. "Be brave."

He glares. He tries to, but now she's sprawling belly down on the bed. The view doesn't really lend itself to glaring, especially when she shimmies for the far edge and plucks the red coat from the floor.

She holds it up and _tsks_ at him _._ "Rumpled, Constable."

"Shameful." He tosses the phone aside and tries to climb up the bed for her on his knees. She pushes him away with one bare foot. He topples back on to his hands while she slips her arms into the coat and pulls it just barely closed over her breasts. It stops him hard in his tracks.

"That . . ., " he stammers, ". . . that is just . . . wow, that is . . . I totally get it."

"Get it later, Castle." She falls back on to the pillows. The jacket covers a maddening blend of nothing and everything and _Wow._ He totally gets it. "Feed me now."

* * *

He does. He feeds her. Champagne and roses, and he gets it. They both get it in a variety of ways. There's infinite fascination in the intricacies of the straps and the endless lines of buttons. And then there's the hat. The _hat._ He thinks the costume might be the best investment he's ever made.

The sky darkens outside the window and the city comes to life. There's a gap in the blackout curtains he should really do something about. He would, but she's curled tight against his side, half her own body draped possessively over half of his.

She drifted off a while ago, but he's not quite there yet. He's still kind of wired. An odd juxtaposition of a mind that's racing and a body that's thoroughly worn out.

The lights aren't helping to bring the two halves of him in line with each other. He's making up his mind to it—formulating a plan for slipping out from under her to deal with the window when she speaks.

He doesn't hear the words. He feels them at first. Breath and vibration against his skin. It's that quiet.

"He was . . ." She thinks about it. Draws in more breath. What she needs for this kind of story. " _Ridiculously_ handsome." She pinches his side. "Don't say it."

"Say what?" He grins. He turns to face her, tugging her limbs back over him until they're a messy, comfortable tangle.

"More handsome than you." She sticks out her tongue. "At least I thought so."

"You were seventeen." He shrugs. "I won't hold you responsible for your poor judgment."

She rolls her eyes. Tips her head back. It's not just for him. The impatience. The disbelief. It's for her, too. For youth and stupidity. He wishes, not for the first time, that she weren't so hard on herself. All her selves.

"I was so . . ."

Her hand comes up to cover her face, but he catches it. He kisses her palm. "So . . . seventeen?"

"I threw myself at him." She ducks her head. Pointedly watches her fingers as they trail along his arm. "I was so _pissed._ So tired of being a kid and it was supposed to be . . . God, I just want to _die_ when I think about it."

He keeps quiet. Strokes her hair back from her face and lets her be until she meets his eyes again. Until a brief smile flickers across her lips. Something grateful. She wants to tell.

"Why'd they show up in the first place?" He can't resist a flash of grin. He's still caught up in it. The moment. The thrill of being in trouble. "The constabulary?"

"The guy . . . I was with." There's a shadow now. Something serious. _Bad_. He remembers the tremor in her voice. "Turned out there was a warrant out for him."

She closes her eyes. There's something beyond embarrassment here. This is worse. He waits for her to tell him how. Why.

"There was a gun in his bag. Drugs . . . prescription and some other stuff. Probably enough to draw trafficking charges. He'd had me chat up the guys at the border. He swapped my bag for his when they weren't looking." She looks up at him. "When _I_ wasn't looking. Could've been bad."

"But he let you off the hook?" He tips his head back toward the hat on the night stand behind him.

She laughs. A huge, relieved thing. "He saved my _ass_."

"Who can blame him?" He laughs, too. Sneaks a kiss. "It's a fine, _fine_ ass."

She's smiling. A little wobbly, but a smile. He decides to risk it. A flat out question.

"So . . . the throwing yourself at him . . . before or after he bailed you out?"

She gives him a hard look, but he weathers it. She sticks her tongue out at him again.

"Before." Her cheeks go pink. "That was my master plan to get out of it."

"Ouch." He kisses the spots of color. Says it again, more gently, because he can't think what else to say. "Ouch."

"He was nice about it." She buries her head against his shoulder with a groan. "That was the worst. He was absolutely clear that it was never, _ever_ going to happen. But really . . . nice about it."

"So why'd he help you?" He lets his hand slide down her back. "Other than your fine ass?"

"I didn't know anything." She shrugs. "The guy I was with? I didn't even know his real name, I guess, and he . . . he just left. Went out for beer and never came back. He said . . . the _constable . . ._ " She drops her voice. She's playing, but not playing, too. She really is still a little starry eyed about him, even after all this time. "After he turned me down, I . . . "

The playfulness goes as suddenly as it came. He waits. This is something he _definitely_ has to wait for, though it's killing him. The way it hurts. The way she's burning with it.

"I blubbered about how I wanted to go to law school and . . . my mom . . ." She sighs. "How disappointed my mom would be."

He can't picture it. He absolutely can't picture this version of her, even when she manages to look up at him again and there's a fleeting glimpse there. She's someone he's never met. That incarnation that could cry on a stranger's shoulder, even if she hated herself for it later. That part of her is gone and it's bittersweet to know her for just this little while.

"He said that stupidity shouldn't ruin someone's whole life." She grimaces. She's more than a little pissed off, and _that_ he can picture. Not-so-little Kate Beckett in leather, sullen and slouched against a car door. _That_ he can see. "He drove me back to the border after his shift ended. So I got to hear a _lot_ about how _very_ stupid I'd been."

"Give him a break." He kisses her hard. Pulls her body against his and wonders how he can possibly even _think_ about doing this all over again. He is, though. His mind is buzzing and his body can deal with it. Maybe. "Lecture as defense mechanism. It was simple self preservation."

"Self preservation?" She gives him a lazy grin. Predatory. She's not really listening.

"Absolutely," he mutters against the skin flushing hot against his lips. Again. "Trapped in a confined space with Bad Girl Kate Beckett? Few men survive."

"No men." She clambers on top of him. Reaches for the night stand and jerks one of the long leather straps toward her with a snap. "None survive."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And that's it. Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Final chapter is long and M. It'll be up probably tomorrow.


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